


Somewhere in the Dark

by tigbit



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Minor Injuries, So much talking, Talking, Too Many References to Rain, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigbit/pseuds/tigbit
Summary: The world is not as it once was, and bands of survivors struggle to live in the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse. Rey has found a life with Leia’s band of scavengers. Despite the gloomy landscape, it’s a far less tragic and far more boring life than The Walking Dead led her to believe. She’d choose a waning stockpile of toilet paper over Ben Solo any day.





	Somewhere in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BazineApologist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazineApologist/gifts).



> I need to apologize to my poor recipient. I know you said I could go off-prompt, but I can’t imagine you expected me to latch onto your favorite book, feel inspired by its setting, and twist (strangle?) that setting until it involved zombies. But! I did try to work in jealousy, a bit of enemies to lovers, lightheartedness, and a variant of post-apocalyptic professional rivalry. 
> 
> I tried to be very mindful of your DNWs, so even though this involves zombies, there are no scenes involving graphic descriptions of blood or violence. Injuries are referenced but not explicitly described. 
> 
> <3

Maybe the light will be a new tyranny.  
Who knows what new things it will reveal?  
Constantine P. Cavaffy

\--

Leia had warned her to be quick.

_I deserve this_. Rey held her breath as the thumps grew louder. Closer, although still slow. _She said I shouldn’t come but I did._

It had been a sunless morning when she left, drizzling and oddly over-warm. She’d been on this run before—once with Poe, twice with Finn and Rose—and didn’t think it was worth the effort to keep the typical, cautionary pace. Didn’t even grab a secondary knife. She was observant, of course, and it took no training to be light-footed over the charred streets or to blend in. Hood up, white hands hidden with gloves, any glint of metal tucked away or burnished to dullness. Surely that was enough. The last time she’d been here, Poe had sung a song loud enough to scare the crows. What was the sense in wasting a perfectly good afternoon of solitude with senseless rushing? 

It wasn’t that she hated camp. Finn was there, and safety and purpose and the big copper kettle Chewie always managed to fill for supper. Rey was notorious for getting the itch to wander, but she hadn’t planned on leaving until she heard the whispers. 

Ben was back. 

Or rather, Ben was _going_ to be back. He was due sometime in the late morning, home again after almost six months in the valley. Reconnaissance, she assumed. At the time of his leaving, Rey wasn’t interested in the details. Only that he would be gone and that she would be able to _breathe_ again, finally free to fill her lungs for the first time since—

_Thump_.

“Fuck.” She mouthed the word, daring to inch closer to the door. The hems of rotting coats brushed her shoulders until she flattened, head cocked to peer under the crack. 

A living room. The edges of a rug ravaged by mice and mildew. A broken end table, the lamp it once held now smashed on the floor, electrical cord cut and salvaged for wiring. There was the front door, locked and barred by the chairs someone must have dragged from the kitchen. Mud from her boots. Nothing abnormal, except for what she saw in the mottled light: dust motes. Agitated from movement in the hallway. 

Her heart beat harder. She hadn’t come from the hallway. Not recently.

Something was disturbing the air, and while Rey still couldn’t see the visitor, she had all the proof she needed. 

One of the Walkers.

The noise she could hear promised weight. Heft and likely strength. Closer now, she knew it had a weapon—something dragged behind the footsteps, scratching the wood. That meant metal. That meant something sharp, which meant this one was still smart enough to keep up with maintenance. Or, Rey swallowed, good enough at killing to pick it up after a fight. 

Damn. 

A door hinge creaked, but the steps did not fade away. Checking out one of the bedrooms while blocking her only escape. Fucking methodical, this one. And definitely clever. Rey wouldn’t be lucky enough to stay hidden. 

She could almost picture it: the first rattle of the closet’s doorknob, her useless attempt to keep it from turning as the walker roared in excitement and rage. It wouldn’t take long before it busted through and Rey was fucked. Coats made a sad defense against something hungry for blood. Although, she reasoned, she _could_ use them to blind it—maybe fling a few at its face and take out its legs with a tackle, try to snag its weapon and flee. But with the way her day was shaping up, she’d probably run into a wall and take herself out. She’d wake screaming as it happily gnawed on her knee. 

For reasons unknown, they always went for the knees. Always.

Rey’s knees were numb, but she very much intended to keep them. 

_You’re not allowed to panic._ She willed herself to believe it. _You’re not allowed to be anything other than a survivor. You will escape. You will find your way home. You will suppress this entire day for an undetermined, healthy amount of time until you’re drunk enough on Rose’s moonshine to confess your stupidity to a select group of confidants. They will swear themselves to secrecy. Ben Solo will never find out._

At some point, she had grabbed her sole knife. The familiar weight of it was a comfort as her free hand flexed away the sweat, ready to grab the knob, the coats, or the walker. She was still unsure. 

It was in the room now. On her knees but slowly, slowly transitioning to the balls of her feet, Rey no longer had a visual of the floor. Part of her was glad. In any case, sight was unnecessary: even if she’d been half-deaf, there was no mistaking the location of the walker; every step was like a small bomb of noise, pinpointing its location by the window. The front door.

The closet. 

The shadow of two monstrous, solid feet appeared at the threshold. This close, she could hear it breathe: a warbled, wet sound of useless lungs sucking in air and forcing it out. An undefeatable habit. The longer it stood still, the easier it was to smell its rot.

Rey’s eyes locked on the knob. Waiting. Ready for it to turn. 

And then it did.

\--

Her words still rang in his ears. 

_“—six_ months, _Ben. We were prepared for three weeks. What was I meant to assume? What do you think everyone_ else _assumed? Do you realize what they wanted to do when you—_

He’d left as she asked. Now, finally free from his mother’s gaze, Ben raised a hand to his jaw. A few gentle prods confirmed she’d been kind enough to preemptively remove her ring. No blood, crusted or otherwise. 

“Still smarts, huh?”

“The last thing I need from you,” Ben whirled around, jabbing a finger at Poe’s head, “is a lecture.” What Ben _did_ need was a bath. And possibly—selfishly—the location of whatever hair products Dameron had obviously been hoarding. That man talked a good game about god-given curls and natural bounce, but Ben knew styling cream when he saw it. He set off. “Go away.”

Poe followed. “I speak from personal experience. Thought I could destroy old man Tarkin’s outpost while you were gone. Took our strongest fighters and set out two weeks ago at dawn.”

Ben _hated_ that he wanted to know. “And?” 

“Decimated. Not a floorboard left to burn.”

“Then why…?”

“Half my crew was injured.” He actually sounded guilty. “Mostly flesh wounds, some more severe than others. Jessika got a face full of metal when the bomb finally went off, but she’s recovering. Says she forgives me. Not sure if I really believe it.”

“I take it my mother didn’t forgive you.”

Annoyingly, Poe had managed to catch up. Ben took the opportunity to stop altogether, trying to reorient himself—he could have _sworn_ he was going the right way—until he recognized a stray dog. Artoo, as unsettlingly ageless as ever. Ben assumed the mutt still lingered by Luke’s old place, which meant…

Ben swung a sharp left. 

“Verbally? No. But I was invited to dinner last Tuesday, so that has to count for something. Chewie’s still a beast in the kitchen.” 

Of fucking course Dameron still ate dinner with his mother. Ben tried and failed not to picture the whole sickening scene. Little had likely changed since he left. Leia loved holding court with her sycophants, their heads perpetually bent in whispers over full plates. Chewie was always there, quiet and eternally mournful in the absence of Han. Ben remembered Ackbar and various People of Importance filtering in and out with reports; he assumed that still happened, although they were likely more irreverent in his absence. Camp business was brought up and settled in between soft laughter from the corner with Poe, Finn, Rose, and—

“Slow down, would you?”

“I have a better idea. Stop following me.” 

Not so much as a misstep. “Look, you were gone a long time.”

“I’m aware.” Ben pivoted and retraced his steps to the last turn, trying a new direction with more confidence than he felt. Tents, makeshift lean-tos, and their inhabitants blended together in an alarming mix of familiar and unknown. 

“So you have to know that people want to understand _why_.” 

Ben was only half-listening, but he scoffed. “People aren’t interested in understanding me, Dameron.” 

“Jesus. Listen to yourself. Are you fourteen? Do you need me to find you a cape so you can—I don’t know. Dramatically twirl the fabric that’s as black as your misunderstood soul? I’m sure there’s a fire pit nearby. Someone would probably be willing to let you brood in proper lighting.” 

That barrel. He has passed that same fucking barrel at least three times. Where the _hell_ is his tent?

“You’ve already got the scar. Very on-brand. We’ll call it symbolic: an outward expression of inner pain.”

No doubt it would have fueled Dameron to know, but anger—hot and sharp—flared in Ben’s chest. His hands unconsciously flexed. He was missing something. It pissed him off that he was missing something. 

“Be honest: would you or would you not say your soul qualifies as ‘tortured?’ Because—”

“For fuck’s sake!” Ben exploded. Random passersby scurried into the nearest tent. “Exactly no one is thrilled that I’m here. Not now, not before. That man,” he paused to point at a shivering pile of gray rags, “is literally pretending to be a rock in my presence.”

The rock emitted a faint squeak of terror.

Poe shrugged. “Maybe if you didn’t stalk through camp with seemingly murderous intent.”

“That’s ridiculous. I do not _stalk_ , and—”

“You do, actually.”

“—I have no intention of murdering anyone.” He leaned a little closer to the squeaking rock as he said it. Perhaps the stranger would spread the word. “If I look… _disgruntled_ , it’s because I’m surrounded by idiocy.”

Dameron dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “God, you’re awful.”

He was, a bit. And he knew it, but that didn’t make him feel any better. 

Ben tried to avoid violently throwing his hands up in the air. He failed. “Have you seen this camp lately? Taken a walk, talked to anyone? I assume you’ve noticed that the grand majority of the population does fuck-all.” He pointed at Dameron’s mouth when it popped open, cutting him off. “I’m not talking about your fighters. I’m not talking about my mother’s engineers or—” _Just say it. Just spit it out._ “—Rey’s scavengers. It’s the rest of them.” He paused before asking, “Why are all these people wandering around? It’s almost noon. What are they doing?”

“They’re living their _lives_ , Ben. Their miserable, post-apocalyptic lives. Cut them a break.”

Ben would have admitted it: he stalked forward. “Their miserable, post-apocalyptic lives are only possible because of sacrifice. Great sacrifice. When’s the last time you’ve caught Rose outside of her lab? How many nights a week do you actually sleep?” It galled him to admit that Rose or Dameron actually did anything of value, but it was the frustrating truth. “We’re constantly pushing back attackers, walkers. How is that right—how is it an _option_ that you risk your life and the lives of your crew while someone else sits on his ass and complains about rations? In what universe does that make sense?”

“Are we really doing this?” Poe asked, incredulous. “You’ve been back for less than thirty minutes. Aren’t debates on political theory usually reserved for places with less mud?”

“You wanted to know why I left. What I was doing. I was trying to find a solution.”

“For what, exactly?”

Ben growled. “I just fucking _told_ you. This camp is a shitshow. There’s no real organization, no expectations for the general population. How we continue to function, I have no idea. Everyone’s allowed to do exactly as they please, even if what they choose to do is nothing.” 

“You act like someone’s only worth protecting if they—what, invent a new irrigation system? Sweep the dirt off your shoes? ‘Sorry, Margaret. I know you’re really hungry, but you didn’t do your chores. I know you were really looking forward to more burdock root.’” Poe jammed an angry finger into Ben’s chest and ducked out of range when Ben tried to swipe back. “Is that really how you see things? Efficiency output? Percentages of resources used and acquired?”

“Yes!” Ben found himself feeling even more defensive when the other man’s jaw dropped. “We’re at war with the world for survival. Numbers matter. Do you think generals win battles based on their _feelings_?” Actually, that’s exactly what Dameron probably thought. “Look, I’m not saying it’s moral. I know it’s not. I don’t _want_ to give a shit what anyone does, but it’s foolish to pretend like the world hasn’t changed. Like there aren’t bigger consequences for inaction. Think of how much better camp would be if we just—”

“Made it more like Snoke’s?” 

Ben’s insides nearly shriveled up and died because _no_ , no that wasn’t what he meant at all. 

“Actually, I don’t want you to answer that. I’m not sure I could look at your fucking face if you said yes.” 

Ben couldn’t feel his feet. It was a cold day, but it had more to do with a new weightlessness creeping through his veins. Snoke. Fuck Dameron for throwing that name around like it wasn’t a weapon. For a breathless moment, the sounds of a camp faded away, the soft flap of tents replaced with barked orders and _you know the price for disobedience, my apprentice. you reek of weakness. look at you, shuddering like a pathetic—”_

“Ben?”

He was breathing heavily. 

“Hey, Ben.” A hand gently clasped his shoulder, stealing him away from the past. He blinked to see Dameron’s face, his eyes laced with apology. “That wasn’t…that wasn’t right, that I said that. Okay?” He took a step back, either satisfied with Ben’s lack of response or resigned to it, and sighed. “I just think people deserve a choice. But we’ll talk later. You should settle in, maybe get some rest.”

Impossible, thanks to the new headache pounding beneath his temples. But Ben nodded. He watched as the other man turned his back and started picking his way through the mud. He was almost out of sight before Ben could swallow enough pride to call out, “Dameron!”

“Yeah?”

“Where…” No, there was no way around it. He had to ask. “Where is my tent?”

An annoying flash of perfect teeth. “Rey moved it.” 

The rock cackled. 

\--

All in all, Rey felt victorious. 

The walker had put up a hell of a fight, but between the two of them, only one was currently rotting and headless in a basement. She didn’t have any chalk or spray-paint for a written warning, so an impressive barricade of pastoral landscape paintings would have to do. She’d found an alarming abundance of them in the house. 

The house she was stuck in. 

Because even though she’d survived—kneecaps unscathed, thank you very much—she _had_ managed to royally twist her ankle. The idea of hopping all the way back to camp was unappealing but doable; unfortunately, pain wasn’t the biggest roadblock. That prize was awarded to the weather.

Sheets of rain continued to batter the windows. She’d broken two in the earlier fight, which meant a small lake was growing in the living room. It made her miss fishing. And sunshine.

No matter how often she checked, the sky never shifted from the gloomiest shade of gray-black. Utter darkness would soon descend, and while Rey did not relish the idea of being stuck outside of camp, she _really_ didn’t relish spending the night without a light source. She had matches, of course, but nothing safe to burn. Even if the rain hadn’t drenched the wood she’d spotted earlier, she wasn’t about to start a fire without a fireplace or a trash can. That road only led to someone finding her burnt bones in the ashes of a former house. Her flares were safely sitting in her pack, but what was the point? Fifteen minutes of light was useless. 

Although to be fair, there wasn’t much to see. Other scavengers had long ago stripped the house of anything inherently useful. Nothing to read. Without her tools, nothing to mend. It was maddeningly boring. For the first time in a long time, she found herself missing her cell phone and the mind-numbing comfort of an app. 

Hobbling to the second floor, she wasted time by wrapping and rewrapping her compress and imagining which words she’d hear when she came face to face with Leia. _Irresponsible_ was a clear contender, followed by some soul-crushing combination of _headstrong, unprepared, senseless,_ and _just like my son_. 

Rey shuddered. 

She really didn’t want to think about Ben. It was easier to drag a box near a window, prop up her foot, and enjoy the sound of rain. 

\--

As soon as Ben found Rey, they would have _words_.

Not only had she moved his tent, Rey had seen fit to rearrange the entirety of what his tent contained. Spare socks were now wedged between his pitiful attempts at whittling and his copy of Edible and Medicinal Plants, Vol. 2 instead of his trunk. His cot—once arranged so his feet faced westward _as was logical_ —was now facing southeast and crooked, his sensible blue covers swapped out for ones he did not previously own. Where Rey had found Clifford the Big Red Dog sheets was beyond him. 

(Privately, though, he did admire her resourcefulness. To find such a niche set of sheets, free of holes and childhood pee stains? That was skillful to a frustrating degree. He was envious.) 

It was hours before he managed to get things in any kind of sensible order. He kept a running list in his head of missing items:

\- The face mask he’d kept after leaving Snoke’s camp  
\- A black traveling cloak that absolutely did not make him look like a space villain  
\- His favorite leather gloves  
\- A gaudy strip of gold fabric, stained red

Ben was admittedly not a detail-oriented person. Yet, he sensed a theme. 

He’d known she was upset the day he left. Their last conversation was nightmarish—tattooed on his memory deep enough to scar—but he thought time was meant to _heal_ wounds, not let them fester to the point of tent relocation. 

He needed to find her. 

The headache was still a problem, but Ben knew himself well enough to know that it would linger as long as he avoided her. If he couldn’t make her understand why he left or why he’d asked what he’d asked, then at least he could properly berate her for being so childish in his absence. Stealing his things and moving his tent to a wretchedly rocky patch of earth did not portend good things about their upcoming conversation, but it was still necessary. If she was bitter, let her be bitter to his face. 

Unzipping the tent’s flap and pushing it aside, Ben was shocked to see tiny fires dotting the adjacent hill. This new world never quite managed to be sunny, tending instead to vacillate between various shades of desolate gray. Still, he hadn’t expected the utter darkness. It was late. 

In a way, it made his mission easier. Dinner would be wrapping up any minute, which undoubtedly meant that Rey would be with his mother—cleaning her plate, laughing, knocking shoulders with Dameron, Finn, and Rose. Plotting more unspeakable deeds, perhaps. 

He set off. 

The closer he got to the more official-looking tents (canvas walls instead of nylon; carbon-core stakes instead of plastic), the higher the energy became. No one was running, exactly, but he was almost shouldered off the trail by no less than three people walking with a determined clip. 

He grabbed the last one by the elbow before they could get away. “What’s going on?”

It was a woman, her dark hair dented from the crease of a helmet. One of Dameron’s fighters, then. “Have you seen Finn?” she asked, harried. “Has he checked the greenhouse? We’ve got negative reports from the outpost and laundry.”

“No, but—hey!” He tightened her grip when she started to move away. “Talk to me.”

“Talk to your mother,” she threw back, yanking her arm away. Between one blink and the next, she was gone. 

Ben stared at the direction she’d taken, momentarily dazed. Something important had obviously been misplaced, but he had no idea what could warrant this level of panic. Had Rose engineered some kind of bomb? A quick check confirmed that he wasn’t the only one in the dark: plenty of people were unabashedly staring as the next messenger—an actual runner, this time—zoomed past Ben from the other direction. 

“What the hell,” he muttered.

More and more people were standing up, heads together in conspiring whispers. They looked ready to storm Leia’s tent for answers, which meant Ben needed to beat them there. 

It didn’t take long. If the energy level was distracting before, it was alarming now: the faces of everyone leaving or entering the main tent were distraught, jaws tight with frustration and panic. 

Ben shouldered his way through. 

In the center of it all was his mother, bent and pointing at a map that held far more walker markers than Ben could remember seeing when he’d left. She looked up as soon as his shoulders cleared the flaps.

“Ben,” she said, gesturing for him to join her. “We need you.” 

_You need me?_ he wanted to parrot back. _That’s…new._

She took his hand as soon as he came close, tugging it until he hunched. “Rey’s missing.”

A ringing began in his ears. 

His mother kept talking. “She left on a run this morning. This _early_ morning. Should have returned hours ago, but she never checked in. No one’s seen her—none of her friends, none of the scouts.” She kept a hold on his fingers but turned enough to gesture at the table map with her chin. “The logbook has her signature on the Myers run. Safe. Not the most accessible, but childishly safe. There are recent reports of Walkers nearby—not specifically in that area, but close enough to have me worried that they’re responsible for her delay.” 

If the tent had been chaotic when he’d entered, he no longer noticed. His world was now small. Sharpened. He focused on his mother’s face and forced himself to breathe. He refused to think about Rey. 

“—history, but I knew how you’d feel if we asked anyone else.”

Leia was looking at him, expectant. Ben knew she’d proposed something, a plan. Knew it had to be about Rey. 

“I’m going.” 

Weary resignation darkened Leia’s eyes. “I know you are.” 

Precious minutes were wasted in the tent—reminders on wound treatment, updated locations for supplies, and far too many warnings and action plans that he had no intention of following. Finally, he escaped back out into the nighttime. 

The air tasted like rain. 

\--

Rey had had more pleasant evenings, but it was far less miserable being stuck in an attic than she’d expected. 

Her ankle ached like a bitch—it throbbed to her heartbeat, now—and while she still trusted herself to make it back to camp in the morning, she relished the chance to rest somewhere clean and dry. If her hands couldn’t stay busy, at least her mind was free to dream. She’d already plotted out two separate missions involving Ben’s tent. If he really was home, it was time for Phase B. She hoped she’d hidden the fireworks well enough. With any luck, he’d be too distracted by the sheets to check under the mattress. 

She smiled to an empty room.

The rain still fell. By some miracle, the roof leaked in the most convenient locations: namely, far away from her pile of clothes and blankets. She watched the small puddles grow incrementally, happy that she couldn’t hear the individual drip-drip of each drop. That would be far too maddening. Thankfully, being up in the attic meant that the rain was loud enough to become gray noise. 

The part of her that had grown up leery of shadows whispered that it wasn’t wise to be somewhere that didn’t allow her to properly hear. Anything could use it to its advantage. Like whatever it was that was inching up the attic door. 

_Like whatever it was that was inching up the…_

It was Ben. 

“ _Jesus_ , you scared me.” Rey stopped herself short of grabbing at her heart. It still beat wildly. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I guess the rain must have…” She forcibly stopped her rambling, trying to adjust to the fact that _Ben Solo_ was standing three feet in front of her, his jacket dripping rain onto the wood. 

His eyes made a quick scan of her body, zeroing in on her wrapped foot. It had swelled beyond the confines of her boot hours ago, the bruising worryingly dark. Rey couldn’t deny that it looked horrendous, but the worst of it was covered by the sheet-turned-bandage she’d used. There was no reason for his shoulders to snap so tight. 

He approached her with his hands up, moving slowly. “Look, I know you don’t trust me.” 

It _wasn’t_ that she didn’t trust him, actually. “I’m fine, Ben.”

“But I know what the fuck I’m doing. How long have you been bleeding?”

“Bl—? I said I’m fine. Hey!” She grabbed the hand he was directing toward her foot. The way he was acting, it was like he expected to find a stump. “Would you hold on?”

He batted her hand out of the way, gentle but firm. There was an undercurrent of panic to his voice. “Stop being a martyr. Let me see.”

“It’s just sprained!” She debated kicking him with her other foot. Just because. “Look, you’re—Jesus, you’re dripping everywhere. I stayed here to _escape_ the rain, not drown in it.”

If the way Ben sloughed off his jacket in half a second wasn’t dramatic, Rey didn’t know how to define the word. “Happy?” he growled, and proceeded to sit on the edge of her blanket nest, his back to her face. Arguably, this was a smart move: it made it much harder to fight back. “Now stop moving. Do you have a light nearby? I need to know how bad it is.” 

“Your bedside manner is appalling,” she snapped, but forced herself to lie back, arms crossed. “And no. Where’s yours?”

“In my bag.” And on, apparently. That explained the faint light in the room. 

“Then why don’t you just— _fucking hell!_ ” Her ankle screamed when he touched it, even though she knew he was being gentle. She instantly felt sweat break out between her shoulder blades. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, still working. He spoke like a man forced to undergo some terrible trial. “I know it hurts.”

That he sounded so earnest was a strange type of pain relief, as if knowing he found her discomfort so abhorrent enabled her to feel less discomfort in the first place. The strength of his feeling was not unwelcome, but Rey did feel a little off-balance as a result. What did it mean? 

_Oh, stop,_ she told herself. _You never doubted that he cared. You only wondered if he still did._

She focused on his hands. Her ankle was mightily displeased to be prodded and squeezed—even as lightly as Ben touched—but it wasn’t unbearable. If she breathed correctly, it was more than manageable. Strangely nice, even, to let him cushion her heel with one hand as he unwrapped her compress with the other. 

“Deep breath,” Ben warned, when the last layer of wrapping was set to come off. “Sometimes the blood likes to stick to the—”

“For the last time,” Rey interrupted, “it’s a sprain. Your blood fetish is going to have to wait.” 

That made him turn. Weak moonlight let her see his profile. “One: I do not have a blood fetish. And two: am I or am I not currently beside the same woman who once insisted her concussion was a headache?”

“It _was_ , I—”

“Fell down half a mountain? Finn saw you go over the edge.” His voice was hard. “I guess you thought the broken arm was a dream.”

“Point taken,” she conceded, not gracefully, “but I promise you’re going to be disappointed when you see—”

“What the shit is this?”

The final wrapping had finally come off. Propping herself up on her elbows, Rey couldn’t see his face, but she felt better prepared for the imminent argument. If she could read the line of his shoulders correctly (she would have called herself an expert, once), he was equal parts pissed and dumbfounded. 

He left her long enough to grab a flashlight from his pack, sitting down again with far less care than he had before. “This is…” He brought the beam close to her puffy skin, angling it in every direction as he inspected. “This is a sprain.”

She let him continue to stare, not sure why she suddenly felt so embarrassed. In a desperate attempt to ease the tension, she tried to demystify the lines of his pack. He’d obviously brought a gun. There were two telltale bulges that suggested clothing or blankets. It was too dark to see if the leafy bits were food or just hitchhikers from his trek, but her stomach growled regardless. Then she realized he’d brought an extra bag. 

“What’s in there?” She pointed to it, its zipper bulging. 

Almost dazed, it was a moment before he turned to look. It seemed to fuel his anger. “Medical supplies! I thought the only thing that could possibly keep you coming back from camp was a severed limb. Maybe two.”

“Did you raid the med tent?” It was a stupid question; he must have, considering the size and the number of white, gauzy things she could spot sticking out of the side pockets. She didn’t even know they still _had_ gauze. The last time she’d busted her arm, she was 98% sure the doctor on duty had used a dirty t-shirt. 

“I—” He started to answer, but cut himself off. It was hard to tell in the dim light of his lamp, but Rey could have sworn she saw a new flush to his cheeks. “No.” 

He’d probably been a brute about it—storming in, ignoring the pleading of whatever unfortunate soul had the shift. Whatever he’d said, he’d obviously been in a hurry. If there was a way to describe Ben’s typical packing style, it was meticulous. The bag she saw was a haphazard mess. 

“Well,” Rey said awkwardly, “thank you.”

That seemed to placate him. He didn’t look pleased, per se, but he no longer looked like he was ready to order her down the steps and out into the rainy night. 

“How are the roads?” she asked, hoping he could connect the dots and understand why she hadn’t left. 

He looked like he was still processing, but he managed to shrug. “Not good. Visibility’s near to nothing. I’d say the odds are fair for leaving the neighborhood, but the hills are nothing but mud.” Rey squinted at his pants and realized their original color _wasn’t_ brown. It looked like he’d crawled through a swamp. “We’re better off waiting until morning.”

She nodded. “That was my plan.” And she didn’t want to, but felt obligated to ask, “How was camp, when you left?”

“Half-mad, thanks to you.” 

That stung. “You think I intentionally sprained my ankle? Or made it rain?” 

“No, I think you were irresponsible. I think you ignored my mother’s warning. I think you heard I was coming back and decided that the smartest place to hide was on a run that you weren’t prepared to make. You didn’t even sign out an extra knife, Rey. You’re better than that.”

He’d checked the logs? 

There were a dozen protests she could make. What made him think she was hiding from him—never mind that it was true? She was capable of taking care of herself; even if there _had_ been a serious threat, didn’t he realize she could handle it? If she walked home after tumbling down a hillside (and it was a hill, not a mountain, even if it was rockier than most), wouldn’t she have tried to come back with a sprain? 

But she’d done what she’d done. And he was right: she was better than this desperate attempt at avoidance. 

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

While she’d been thinking, Ben had taken the opportunity to change his shirt. A clean pair of pants was in his hand, now. He looked up when she spoke, but didn’t offer any other kind of acknowledgement. 

“Do you…” Rey floundered in the quiet. “You wouldn’t happen to have any food?”

He rolled his eyes, but kicked over his bag. “I’m going to go change. Don’t eat it all at once.”

\--

The next morning didn’t feel like a morning. Rey didn’t believe Ben when he told her the time, even doubtful after he wordlessly showed her the dull glow of his watch. 6:00. If she squinted, the sky outside the window might have been a slightly brighter shade of gray. 

The awkwardness of the night before hung heavy in the air. It made her want to squirm. Judging by the way Ben was pretending to sort through his supplies for the fifth time—packing and unpacking and repacking— he felt it too. 

“I’d make you pancakes,” she offered, “but I’m afraid I’m all out of milk.”

A section of hair fell into Ben’s eye when he looked up, hands stilling. Her heart gave an extra thump. 

_Please just take it,_ she thought desperately. _This is not the kind of struggle I want to endure._

He resumed his sorting, albeit more slowly. He didn’t look at her when he mumbled, “Cow run away?”

She breathed out. _Yes. Thank you. Yes._ “Two days back.”

“Nothing left in the freezer?”

“Something funny going on with the electric.”

He hummed in understanding. “Spotty service?”

“You could say that.” The last time Rey had seen working, reliable electric, she’d been standing with a Big Gulp inside a 7-Eleven, torn between pocketing her change and listening to the strange, strange newscast blaring from the cashier’s radio. 

“Not friendly with the neighbors?” When Rey arched an eyebrow, he clarified: “Couldn’t borrow a cup?”

“Oh.” Rey settled deeper into her nest of blankets, wincing when she jostled her foot. “You know, I think they’re on vacation. Haven’t seen them in a while. What about you?”

“Me?”

“You live nearby.” Because he did. He would. That was not something she doubted, even after everything. “Know someone who’d be willing to share? Surely you’ve made friends.”

“Believe it or not, my charming disposition is less endearing that you’d think.”

She threw out a name. “Not the Abrams?”

“I—no.” His brow furrowed in thought. “He hasn’t answered the door since I insulted his cannas.”

“The Johnsons?”

“Relocated out west.”

“What about that elderly neighbor, the one who bakes? What’s her name? Gretchen?”

“Gertrude, and I’m afraid not. She’s been acting strange.”

“No,” Rey overdramatically gasped. Like they were gossiping over tea and flaky scones instead of camping out in a dusty attic. “How so?” 

“If there’s such a thing as a socially acceptable limit of growling, she’s more than met her quota.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Add in the rotting flesh and the missing jaw and I’m 87% sure there’s a serious problem.” 

Rey couldn’t help it: she laughed, solid and loud. Ben didn’t join her, but she knew he was pleased. He’d once said that he loved to make her happy. And strangely—for the moment, if nothing else—she was. 

The story was over, though. It was sobering to realize there would be no pancakes. Milk from a fridge was a distant dream, and the only neighbors anyone had either lived in a tent too bare or a camp too distant to warrant a trip. All they had were their words and the dream they’d spun to help them forget. 

Dreams were dangerous, though. There was a fine line between the comfort they provided and the resentment they fostered if the dreamer compared them to reality. There was no way to realize too many dreams, now: there were no corporations with ladders, no parks with picnic tables, no colleges for children or retirement in old age. Happiness wasn’t unreachable, but it needed to be redefined in a dramatically different way. For most people, at least. 

Happiness for Rey had never been a bank account or an easy life. It was family. A home. The experience of having someone who loved her who she could love back. 

That last thought burned. 

Ben’s voice drifted over. “It’s no pancake, but I do have an oat bar. I would tell you that it doesn’t taste like dirt and Chewie’s beard, but we both know the danger of a lie. Rey?”

Unable to decide how she felt, Rey had decided to stare at the ceiling. If she opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure if her answer would come out as a squeak or a shout. 

“Rey?” He tried again, unfolding from his crouch. Concern turned his words soft. “Is it your ankle?”

“Yes,” she lied. 

\--

The attic was too small. On the pretext of checking the road, Ben grabbed his rain gear and ducked out of the room, leaving Rey moping in her makeshift bed. 

It was one of the few blessings of this new world that Ben no longer felt so large. There were no doorways to duck under, no matchbox-sized cars to squeeze into, no apologies to give for taking up too much space on a subway bench. His height was suddenly a new asset: better for discouraging fights or ending them. Whichever the situation demanded. Muscles were not just maintained in this world, but used. If he wasn’t fighting, he was hauling: no gym membership could beat the rigor of a supply run. 

This neighborhood was familiar to him. It was one of the largest near the camp—not so close that it was easy to scavenge, not so far that it was impossible to bring back a haul. Before he’d left there had been something of an unsaid competition between him and Rey: who could bring back the most? The best? 

It was a stupid competition, mostly because finding anything in the apocalypse was a win. So technically, neither of them ever lost. For every scrap of heavy iron Ben was strong enough to carry, Rey found ten priceless pieces of copper. If Ben found a generator, Rey found enough usable gas to make it run. His mother was always too neutral in her praise to be useful as a judge. 

Now, walking down the street and sidestepping pot holes, Ben realized that was the beginning. Leia had never scheduled bulk runs, in those early days. It was Rey and Ben, both either snapping out orders or ignoring them, foul-mouthed when one of them found something in a house the other had already searched. 

It wouldn’t be fair to say they’d ever made a formal truce, but bickering had eventually spiraled into muttering and muttering into talking. And talking turned into…whatever it was they almost had. 

He got on with the business of checking out the roads. 

\--

Rey could tell by the way he slammed the door that Ben wouldn’t be bringing good news. 

“It’s practically a moat,” he spat, flinging off his jacket. “Unless we take the north road, there’s no way out. Not unless we learn to fly.” 

Rey’s heart sank. They’d already stayed too long. A quick glance out the window confirmed what she could already tell by his posture: the rain wasn’t letting up any time soon. If there was a moat today, there’d practically be a river by tomorrow. “Should we go north, then?” 

His jacket got a violent shake; Rey felt a drop of water land on her ear. “Could,” he said, grudgingly, “if we feel up to fighting a Walker or three. I checked the scouting reports before I left.”

“Damn,” she whispered. “How recent?” 

“Recent.” One of his arms went up to grip a rafter. He stretched as he leaned forward, his other hand rubbing at his temples. “I’m not sure if we should risk it.”

Without a bum ankle, Rey wouldn’t have hesitated. While she couldn’t say she _enjoyed_ killing Walkers, she was admittedly good at it. Ben, too. Together, they were more than formidable enough to protect themselves. Three or ten—it wouldn’t have mattered. A broken rib or a bleeding arm were easy enough to overcome, but if she couldn’t be quick on her feet…

“Could you go ahead?” she offered. “Clear a path, kill what you need to kill, and come back?”

“I’m not leaving you here.” The way he said it made it clear there was no changing his mind. “Soon as I start chopping off heads, they’ll smell their dead and rally up. More than likely they’d follow my scent back here and find you.”

“So we barricade the house. I camp out, nearly die of boredom, and you come back with reinforcements when the weather clears up.”

“There’s no way of knowing how long that would take.” He shook his head, letting his arm drop. “We stick together. But whether we stick together here or stick together going north…I don’t know.” His gaze fell to her foot. “I don’t know.”

Neither did Rey. 

\--

Time crawled as they debated. Two hours of ideas offered and dismissed meant they were no closer to finding a solution. Both of them were pissy—Ben because he was Ben and because he didn’t respond well to inaction; Rey because she was tired of being stuck in a room with a pissy Ben. Also because her ankle felt like an over tenderized meat balloon. 

“Just take the damn pills,” he said, for what had to be the fifth time. He shook the bottle near her face, growling when she slapped his hand away. “You’re downright ignorant when you’re in pain.” 

That was so patently untrue that she scoffed. “If I’m ignorant, you’re deaf. I told you I don’t want them.”

“There’s no one here for you to impress with your stoicism. I get it, alright? Pain is your servant and you are its master, or whatever the fuck you want to believe. This isn’t a war; you’re not waving a white flag if you do yourself this one favor.” 

“Jesus Christ,” she rolled her eyes. “Pick a metaphor.”

His eyes _burned_ , and Rey took advantage of the moment to snatch the pill bottle out of his hand, throwing it in the general direction of his medical bag. It hit a wooden beam and skittered off into a nest of cobwebs. Rey winced. 

Ben watched the bottle as it spun. “That was the fifth most childish thing you’ve done all day.”

“Says the man who literally stomped down the stairs when I told him he needed a better haircut.”

He leveled a finger at her face. “Which was the _second_ most childish thing you’ve done all day.”

“Since when is telling the truth considered childish?”

“When it’s _not the truth_.” 

Rey did not stick out her tongue. She only had time to briefly congratulate herself on this victory before the sight of Ben retrieving the bottle finally awakened her sense of shame. It took effort to stop herself from immediately apologizing. 

When neither of them proceeded to speak, the hush of rain filled the room. The house settled. Rey tried to clear her mind by worrying at her blanket’s biggest hole. The plaid had faded unevenly, she noticed, and it made her inexplicably sad. 

She rolled her lip between her teeth. “Ben, I—”

“I get it, you know.” He wasn’t looking at her. He still held the bottle, picking at the label as he frowned. “You think about who’ll need it next. What if it’s a kid? What if one pill makes the difference? Who wouldn’t be willing to suffer, if it came to that?” 

Rey was quiet. 

“I used to think suffering was noble. And it can be, I guess. Sometimes. If it’s done for the right reasons.” He paused, working his jaw. “But before I knew it, suffering was all I knew. I started to think I deserved it. And because I thought I deserved it, I looked for it. I needed it, because I didn’t know who I was without it. Does that make sense?”

If the words were strange, this was still a language she knew. She nodded. 

“It was this weird, convoluted equation in my head. Like my suffering was stored up in some bank that better people could draw from. The more I suffered, the more I helped. The better I was. But I learned. Eventually.” 

He stood in front of her, and Rey’s eyes studied the floor. He was patient, though, and waited until she looked up, up, up. It was hard to meet his eyes, but when she did she held them unwaveringly. Then he nodded, and she thought she saw pride mixed with a very old sadness. 

“That’s not the way suffering works, Rey.” 

She took the pills.

\--

Loath as she was to admit it, Rey had a much brighter outlook on their situation after the drugs kicked in. They didn’t kill her pain completely, but they certainly numbed it enough for her to realize how much of her energy she’d been spending on suppressing her discomfort. 

She continued turning over Ben’s speech in her mind. He’d never admitted anything of the sort to her before today. If it were true—and it _felt_ true—then Ben Solo suddenly made much more sense. 

Lingering questions still remained. Even with his revelation, Rey needed more answers. 

They’d reached an impasse with respect to travel plans. Leaving had never been formally rejected, but Rey took the lingering rain and their lingering presence in the attic to mean that they were the house’s prisoners for another night. Her stomach turned when she thought of what must be going on back at camp. At this rate, she _and_ Ben would be forced to endure hours of chastisement. The odds of getting to join any kind of run in the near future would be slim to none. 

In the meantime, they were here. She and Ben. She and Ben and the past she very much did not want to examine but needed to, anyway. Who knew when fate would throw them together like this again?

Calling on her bravery, Rey cleared her throat. 

“Can we talk about the thing we’re trying not to talk about?”

Earlier, when Rey had pointed out it made more sense to share a light, Ben had joined her by sitting on the bed. He’d brought books, bless him, and he turned a page. Leaning over, she could only tell that it was something about plants. “If you’re interested scolding me about leaving,” he said drily, “my mother beat you to it.”

That didn’t surprise Rey. “Good,” she said, not unkindly. “It was shitty of you. On several levels.”

“The only level people care about is the one where they assumed I’d defected, carrying off some precious camp secrets to Hux.” He huffed. “Like we manage to do anything other than survive.” 

She was confused. “Is there some alternative to survival?” 

“Living,” he said simply, looking up from his book. “Waking up every morning with more options than fear or hunger.”

She opened her mouth to disagree. Life in camp was…demanding, maybe, but for every empty lunch plate there were Poe’s practical jokes. Or Finn and Rose’s poker tournaments with the junk cards Rey had found in a locker. But she couldn’t say that Ben lived the same life. She wasn’t sure he _had_ friends. No one trusted the man who’d once aligned with Snoke, whose ill-advised allegiance cost them Han. He did have a mother, which Rey was always quick to point out, but their relationship was unfathomably complicated. 

“What scares you, then?” she asked, genuinely curious. He only blinked at her, so she tried again. “Fear or hunger, you said. If you’re hungry, you never show it. Which leaves fear. So: what is it about our camp that’s so terrifying?” 

He opened and closed his mouth twice, swallowing his words. She could see the calculation in his eyes and knew that he was weighing a risk. “You,” he said finally, as if it were obvious.

“Why?” she asked, incredulous. 

“I know where I stand with everyone else. I’m Leia’s son, the unworthy successor and fuck-up. If I’m not disdained, I’m feared. My mother…doesn’t know what to do with me. Chewie and Dameron and the rest of them tolerate me, and that’s fine. But you make— _made_ ,” he corrected himself, “me want things. I cared for you.” 

Once, those words would have melted her heart. “If that’s true, then you wouldn’t have asked me to leave.”

He worked his jaw. “It was less about making you leave and more…wanting you to come with me.”

“By leaving,” she said flatly.

“I didn’t see it that way. I get it now. What you thought. And maybe it was stupid for me to say it like I did, but stupid declarations don’t negate feeling. At least not completely.” 

She tried to understand, but, “What does that even mean?”

“I shouldn’t have asked you, okay?” After so long, it was shocking to hear. Rey tried to school her face, but wasn’t sure if she succeeded. “Or at least I...shouldn’t have asked how I asked. But shitty declarations aside, I asked because I cared.”

“I didn’t understand how you could ask me to leave with you. Abandon everyone. Did you hate us that much?”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t about hating anyone. It was about hating how we lived and feeling like I was the only one who saw room for improvement.”

That almost made her laugh. “When did anyone ever give you the impression that they _enjoyed_ living in a tent?”

“No one. Ever. But six months out and I didn’t come home to huts.” He paused, letting her process. “It’s one thing to be discontent as you work for a better future. It’s another to be discontent without ambition.”

“Where are we supposed to find ambition?”

“You don’t _find_ ambition. You create it. And I don’t blame anyone for struggling, but…that’s where leadership steps in. And I know you love my mother, Rey, but she’s not faultless. She’s an experienced politician and practically fated by lineage to lead, but this is not a world she recognizes. Her choices tend to be based on rules that no longer exist.” 

A small spark of the same frustration Rey had felt when he’d asked her to come with him all those months ago flared. She tried not to let it poison her voice. “And you thought you could do better?”

He didn’t answer right away. Slowly, he moved his hand until it covered her own. “With you, I knew I could.” 

An invisible fist clenched her heart. He was looking at her so earnestly, and a small, hysterical part of her brain helpfully noticed that his hair wasn’t stupid. It was lovely and she hated it. It wasn’t hard at all to remember how it had felt between her fingers, how he used to hum contentedly when she rubbed his scalp. So many stolen moments in houses just like this one. She used to think it was the beginning of a dream. 

“And how do you feel now?” she managed to ask. “After leaving. After coming home again.”

“It took me a while,” he said slowly, “to realize that you didn’t refuse because you hated me. It took even longer for me to realize I was wrong. Leaving my mother, starting a new camp from scratch—” He shook his head. “I was an idealistic fool. I didn’t need to abandon the past; I just needed the tools the shape the life I already had.”

Rey turned her hand upside down, quiet. Their palms met. 

He watched as she did it. “Hux’s camp was too much like Snoke’s, but he did make positive changes. It took me too long to learn how he did what he did, but I managed. I…learned a lot, Rey. Things that I think can help, if my mother will listen.”

“I have no way of knowing your mother’s mind, but I can’t imagine her turning down her only son’s advice.” 

He squeezed her hand. “We’ll see,” he sighed, and looked behind them out the window. “If we ever get out of this fucking house.”

Rey didn’t laugh, but she smiled. “Something tells me that we will.”


End file.
